


Choices

by trufflemores_Glee_fic



Category: Glee
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-07
Updated: 2017-07-07
Packaged: 2018-11-28 23:29:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11428503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trufflemores_Glee_fic/pseuds/trufflemores_Glee_fic
Summary: Kurt and Blaine have a fun day at the beach.





	Choices

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, everybody! After receiving multiple requests to repost my old Glee fics, I have created a second AO3 account to do so. I hope you can forgive me for flooding the Glee pages over the next few days. 
> 
> I also ask for kindness regarding the quality of these fics. Over on my main AO3 account (trufflemores), I have written over 150 Flash fics; end result, my current work is of a higher quality than these older pieces. But I know how beloved old fics can be, and I respect that something I consider sub-par can be someone else's favorite. 
> 
> So I hope you enjoy this fic and any others you choose to read. If you choose to do so, I would also be happy to have you on board 'The Flash' bandwagon as well.
> 
> Kick back, relax, and enjoy. You have been one of the greatest audiences I have ever had.
> 
> Affectionately yours,  
> trufflemores

There are two universal constants.

The first is A Kurt Hummel at rest shall remain at rest until he so desires and the second: Subtlety, thy name is not Blaine Anderson.

Fearing for the continuation of his fledgling marriage but dreading what would ensue if he allowed Kurt to remain stationary on the beach until he reached the complexion of a well-roasted lobster, Blaine digs his toes a little deeper into the sand and thinks.

Option A is simple: coverage. But they don't have a beach umbrella with them, eliminating the convenience of simply allowing Kurt to bask on his own time. Flexing his toes lightly, Blaine weighs the merits of finding one, despair occluding his intrigue as he turns the idea over. By the time he located one, purchased it at a doubtless overpriced but conveniently located gift shop (thereby adding another mark to the How to Ensure an Early Divorce tally), and dragged it out onto the sand, the need will have long passed entirely. He'd be signing divorce papers before sundown.

Watching the crab dig gingerly into the sand a handful of yards away, he drags a hand through his curls, feeling the metaphorical clock ticking away with every hot second.

Given the idyllic nature of their setting, it's hard for him to even fathom the urgency of their situation, sleepy-minded and ready to detox from the ocean for a little while indoors. The beach is still warm and sublimely comfortable, but approaching that midday zenith that ensures bad burns. It's certainly picturesque against the water and appears almost irrelevant, but he knows not to ignore its unforgiving tendency to inflict third degree burns upon any fair-skinned surface that dares pass beneath it.

And there, dozing idly at his side, is Kurt, painfully exposed to its wrath but equally oblivious to its intent. Wearing nothing but a pair of sleek sunglasses and bright red swim trunks, he lies utterly dormant on his belly across a white beach towel, taunting the sun's rays with his smooth, unprotected skin and snoozing away as if there is no deeper pleasure in life than tempting death.

And so it's up to Blaine -- having waded back in from the tide to find his husband not only not ignoring his near-death experience with rip tides but also utterly unconscious -- to find a solution.

Ticking a line in the sand, he thinks, Option B: removal.

He gets as far as reaching for the towel Kurt is laying on before realizing the full futility of the task hits him. Despite having lived with two extraordinarily vocal roommates for several years, Kurt has always been a light sleeper, waking at the slightest touch and typically making an instinctual leap from "non-threatening" to "life-threatening" in the span of a single second. Blaine already has enough unfond memories to deter him from the resulting backlash, including several astoundingly precise kicks to a rather sensitive part of his anatomy.

Willing the divine to intervene before he's forced to endure injury to spare Kurt's back, Blaine reaches forward and pauses when he sees the spray-tan lotion at Kurt's side.

It seems ludicrous, but he has it in hand before he can even begin to second-guess himself, knowing that some divinity must have heard his supplications.

Still, unwilling to add an additional mark on his ledger for leaping too easily to conclusions, he turns and spritzes his own arm first, the silent whoosh of sunscreen coating it in a gentle layer that clings like dew to the water already coating his skin. It's gentle and barely noticeable, whisper-soft and silent.

And, well, he could go for another dip in the water, or perhaps work on his own tan -- illustrious though it may already be -- as long as Kurt was satiated and out of harm's way.

Taking aim and shaking the can once for maximum coverage, it only occurs to him the nanosecond after he presses down on the top that maybe Kurt's dry, sun-warmed skin might not be as insensitive to the cold as his was.

With reflexes surely honed in another lifetime, Kurt lunges to his feet, Blaine frozen on the ground beside him as one does in the presence of a very large, dangerous predator, finger still perched tellingly on the trigger of the canister.

A single full-body shudder courses down Kurt's spine; Blaine swallows hard in preparation for the inevitable.

Then, slowly, as if he knows escape is futile for Blaine as much as Blaine does, Kurt turns, his sunglasses giving his expression an utterly flat, unreadable look.

Blaine offers the can to him without a word, unsure if Kurt will use it as a blunt weapon and beat him over the head with it or simply chuck it into the ocean.

Emitting a deep, long-suffering sigh, Kurt reaches up with his free hand to pinch his brow and folds himself carefully back onto his towel, canister still in hand.

Unsure if he dares speak, Blaine lets his body relax fractionally, inching towards Kurt slowly until at last he can rest his cheek against his shoulder.

There's a tiny subvocal vibration, almost a growl, and Blaine edges away but not quickly enough, Kurt reaching around and spraying his back once with the can.

"Fuck!" he yelps, because holy fucking hell that's cold, and Kurt's lips twitch with an amused smile even as the rest of his expression remains unchanged.

Then he says, "We should probably head inside," and his voice is so calm and collected that Blaine can almost forget the stinging cold pain on his back, already wearing off but god that's cold, so he nods quickly, relieved to hand over the reins.

As a token of his benevolence, Kurt drapes an arm idly around Blaine's waist, both looking out towards the water for a long moment in silence, listening to the wash of the waves and feeling the sun beat down on them from high above.

"We are never, ever, ever getting spray sunscreen lotion again," Blaine vows.

"I'm never falling asleep on the beach again," Kurt adds dryly, flexing his back a little meaningfully. Then, pausing to examine the long scratches on Blaine's left leg, he asks blankly, "What did you do?"

"I didn't do anything," Blaine says, affronted, and tells him the whole sorry story about the rip current and getting dragged a few hundred yards down the shoreline before paddling his way back and finding Kurt halfway to his own summery grave.

"I'm buying you floaties," Kurt announces after a long beat, getting up and half-helping, half-dragging Blaine up after him.

"I don't need floaties," Blaine mutters mutinously.

"You need floaties."

"You need an umbrella."

Brow furrowing, Kurt pauses mid-task, towel halfway rolled, and asks, "What?"

"You know. A beach umbrella." Miming an umbrella, Blaine adds at Kurt's tolerantly speechless look, "Because you burn."

Kurt scowls, finishes rolling up the towel and tucks it under an arm, spray can still in hand. "I don't need an umbrella."

"I don't need floaties," Blaine retorts, triumphant.

Shaking his head in fond exasperation, Kurt tucks an arm around his waist, kisses his cheek once in amusement, and then--

Spritzes his back again, startling another yelp out of Blaine as he leaps aside, ignoring Kurt's laughter as he saunters up the beach. "Last one home makes dinner," he taunts lightly, hips shimmying invitingly before he takes out at a dead sprint, Blaine scurrying to catch up.

It doesn't matter, really, except that it's another reason to laugh when he finally catches up to Kurt on the wooden deck and Kurt stands back and sprays him off with the hose before they step inside their little beach cottage (ignoring Blaine's yelps of "Kurt Kurt Kurt Kurt" to get all the sand off).

The point ends up being moot because they order overpriced takeout from a conveniently located seafood restaurant that night anyway and sit on the floor together eating it while assembling a cheap puzzle with two sea turtles on it as Blaine insists on his fortitude against rip currents while Kurt browses the Internet for fashionable floaties in their area.

Once the food is gone and their bellies are full and every argument sufficiently exhausted, they end up out on the deck, Kurt cozying up to Blaine's hoodie-covered chest as they sit out under the stars nursing a quiet fondness for each other.

And even though Kurt vows not to and still ends up falling asleep against him, Blaine merely hugs him a little closer and watches the stars flicker overhead, listening to the crickets around them and smiling in silent gratitude that they're both alive and without sunburns and best of all on their honeymoon.

Life is good. Come what may, life with Kurt Anderson-Hummel is so, so good.

**Author's Note:**

> P.S. Please let me know if there are any weird coding errors in the fic! I did my best to weed them out before publication, but some will inevitably slip through the cracks.


End file.
